Ladies and freaks, I have another secret. It’s in line with the previous secret and thus bares no information that is actually…secret.
The latter part of last week left me over the Atlantic and subsequently inside the Mediterranean sea but not in one abrupt action: there was landing, driving, eating, checking in and unpacking in the interim. Which brings me to a revelation that took place just around the unpacking portion of my over-Atlantic-into-the-Mediterrenean experience.
Shoes, jewelry, bathing suits, dresses, some shorts, even a light bulb (not metaphoric) came out of my suitcase. When came time to stow my intimates in the humble drawer assigned to intimates, I realized that I had forgotten to pack my panties. And then another thing dawned on me: did I just refer to my underwear as panties? One of two things is happening with that. Either I am truly becoming my mother–a Middle Eastern woman whose English is on par with my grammar or I’ve spent too much time studying the psychology of registered sex offenders (see: Special Victims Unit) and have started to adopt their vernacular.
But I digress. Initially, I figured bathing suit bottoms would suffice. Then I remembered how terrible yeast infections feel. I thought about taking one for the team, becoming victim to the infection and crafting an entire expose on the circumstances of yeasting while in Israel. My perman-friend had a better idea though. “Why don’t we go to the mall located just a mere two blocks from this hotel and get you some new underwear.” Light bulbs went off, and I don’t mean the ones I packed.
Womp, womp.
We walked over. There it was: American Eagle.
“Aerie,” my perman-friend said, referring to the collection of female intimates by American Eagle.
Before I could give any attention to his extensive knowledge on budget friendly intimates, I noticed a collection of short-sleeved plaid shirts in the Mens section.
Now, I won’t lie to you, for the sake of capturing a clean photo on a white background in line with this site’s aesthetic, the above photo is actually by a brand called Bape. For the sake of consistency though and the retelling of a true story, let’s pretend this is actually American Eagle.
Before so much as looking to the underwear (which, by the way, there were plenty, grade A, in mass,) I grabbed one of the shirts. My perman-friend said it wasn’t his style and I said, “not you, dumb dumb.”
It’s funny, I’d have never picked out the shirt for any man that I knew, likely dubbing it woman repelling or something equally obnoxious. On an actual woman though–so good.
I tried it on. Perfect. And here, all these years, all this time, I could have been shopping American Eagle mens for a mere $24.99 per shirt. Internal fireworks erupted. I rolled up the shirt’s sleeves, it would look perfect with bell bottoms, a mermaid skirt, that embellished one I wore in Paris, silk shorts, skinny jeans. And what’s more? Due to the nature of their, you know, short sleeves, They were far more agreeable with sweaters, blazers, all over-wear.
The opportunities, they were endless.
I walked over to the register, shirt in hand. Smile on face. The shirt’s colors were the perfect combination of blue and green–precisely the print I look for on the perennial quest for a good plaid shirt.
In Hebrew, the sales clerk asked, “would that be all?”
“Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!” I told him.
“Underwear, Leandra” my perman-friend reminded me. “We came for underwear.”
At last though, we left with so much more. And now here I am, like a midwife’s tale, passing on what will indubitably become one future generation’s secret to good fortune. Or at least cost effective dressing.
In matters of the shirt though, please do see also, J. Crew, Old Navy, Shopbop if you prefer a more lady-centric interpretation. If you can’t seem to find anything, try buying a long sleeve shirt (or using an old one,) cutting its sleeves and enjoying extensive exposed elbows.
The end, bye.
